


Incoming

by mustinvestigate



Series: Patsy Decline [1]
Category: Fallout (Video Games), Fallout: New Vegas
Genre: F/M, Fallout Kink Meme, Patsy - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-06-02
Updated: 2011-06-02
Packaged: 2017-10-20 01:17:18
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 11,333
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/207265
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mustinvestigate/pseuds/mustinvestigate
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Post-apocalyptia really needs to rediscover latex.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is the kinkmeme’s fault. And it’s really, really awful. I’ve re-written the worst parts and added a proper ending, but it’s still pretty bad (and consider the other crap I’ve proudly posted before you click on the cut!). Still, I wanted to do right by it, because it broke me out of a dry spell just by being stream-of-consciousness fun. So…*shrug*

Of all the places the courier had dragged him through, Arcade thought this – lurking outside a toilet stall, fending off paint-peeling glares of the be-skirted ferals the Tops considered “classy lady-types” – was easily the most uncomfortable. He peeked through a crack in the stall to see his test subject and nominal boss still staring dubiously at the portable analyzing device he’d given her. Compared to the equipment he’d left behind at the Follower’s fort, it was woefully inadequate, but it would give them a reading of oestrogen levels accurate enough for government work.

“The sampler attachment is extended,” Arcade hissed through the crack. “Right there, yes, you’re touching it right now. Just, er, add a small amount of urine.”

“You want me to _pee_ on your precious irreplaceable tool, the one I’m not even allowed to look at cross-eyed?”

Patsy flicked the sampler attachment hard enough to almost make Arcade regret letting her handle the urine collection herself. Almost. “That’s not a toy.”

“Everything’s a toy if you play with it right,” she insisted.

“Would you cease stalling and get it over with?”

The bathroom door opened with a squeak. Arcade refused to turn around, relieved when his presence earned nothing more than a surprised “hmph!” and a slammed door. Two stalls down, a good-time gal moaned and ejected an impressive quantity of what smelled like vodka and agave nectar into the bowl.

Arcade found himself emphatically not regretting the long evenings wasted poring over pre-war books when he could have been out “having fun.” He wondered if the woman was one of the Mormon Fort’s regulars, drying out for a few days at a time before running back to the bar.

“Okay…it beeped. Is beeping a good thing?”

“Yes, that means it’s finished analyzing your hormone levels…already. Hmmm. Here, let me – ugh! Can’t you ladies aim? Rinse that off before you hand it to me.”

She rolled her eyes and ran his analyzer under the cold tap. The reveller, looking no older than 16 underneath her heavy make-up, hauled herself upright along the swinging door and staggered toward the door. Arcade tried to intervene.

“You really look like you could use some help. There’s a group in Freeside…”

The girl belched and weaved around him. “Get t’fuck.”

“They could loan you a grammar textbook, for starters,” Arcade muttered after her.

“Here, fancy-britches, fresh and clean and only slightly radioactive.”

Arcade snatched the wet device from her and read the result. His heart sank. “Positive. You’re pregnant.”

She blanched, face ashen underneath the deep tan and windburn, and gripped the basin behind her.

“Well,” she breathed, sounding like Arcade had punched her. “I guess I didn’t really need a machine to tell me that.”

“Pats…”

A partially shaved gorilla with a bad bleach-job and a worse suit cautiously poked his head in the bathroom and zeroed in on Arcade. “Scram, creep. We been getting complaints about you perving out the girls in here.”

“I beg your pardon!” Arcade crossed his arms and straightened his back, but couldn’t manage to loom over the shorter man.

“He’s with me, Bing.”

The anthropoid showed his gums in a broad but very nervous smile. Most of the Mojave residents who’d previously encountered the courier sported that “great to see you, shame you can’t stay…right?” expression, but the Chairmens’ anxiety lately flashed more wattage than their uniform jaunty grins.

“Hey-o, there’s the girl, there’s the _girl_. You, now _you_ , buddy, hey? Holdin’ the lady’s hair back for her, that kinda chivalry’s a-okay here at the Tops. Let me have the pleasure of buying a round of atomic cocktails for the special girl and her classy but purely platonic if he knows what’s good for him gentleman friend!”

Patsy let herself be carried along on the big man’s hysterical enthusiasm and beached herself against the Aces bar. Arcade accepted a tall glass festooned with prickly pear wedges and a little umbrella and cautiously settled on a wobbly stool next to her.

“That to your liking, babe, good good, now you just call you old pal Bing if you need any little thing bye!”

“Well,” Patsy said again, then, “Antsy little man, ain’t he?”

Arcade meant to reply with something comforting. Instead, what came out was: “Please tell me you’ve had unprotected sexual intercourse with a man other than that murderer in the last few months.”

“Does the robot count?”

Arcade rubbed his eyes. “No.”

“How about Cass?”

“Unless there’s more to her than meets the naked eye, no.”

“Then it’s definitely Benny’s fault.” Patsy took Arcade’s drink, flicked off the decorations, and sank it in one gulp. The bartender handed him a new one, and Arcade felt it wisest to imitate his boss.

As he gagged, wondering how a drink could burn his throat that much without being made of paraffin and actually on fire, Arcade shuffled through their options. Trouble was, he had no idea what she’d consider an option. He hadn’t expected her to go wobbly in the knees when finally face to face with that bastard Benny, for instance, or to concoct a hair-brained scream to somehow fuck him to death while he and Veronica made small talk with the goons in the hallway over the moans and shattering bed frame. Arcade suspected Benny’s easy back-elevator escape hadn’t been quite the drunken carelessness Patsy claimed, either. For all he knew, a bullet to the cranium and a shallow grave was her people’s equivalent of flowers and bonbons.

His boss was born tribal, part of a semi-nomadic Salt Lake culture. That much was obvious from her rangy desert body and sandstorm features, the broad flat nose, narrow eyes, that partially shaved head. The bullet had wiped away most of her early memories, but what little she could tell him made him think they didn’t value history much anyway. And he’d gotten all of it out of her, artfully dodging her nosy questions with prying of his own.

Everything except her real name. “Patsy” was what Goodspring’s only barkeep had dubbed her, declaring that the minor tribal goddess of midnight roads was a good name for a courier who needed to stay out of sight for a while. Whatever name she’d found attached to her Mojave Express paystub in Primm had made her nose wrinkle, and even the Nashes called her “Pats” now.

Patsy had fallen into the courier business after her tribe scattered to the winds rather than stand against the oncoming Legion forces. It was a trade that had suited her itchy feet and native training in hunting, surviving, and hiding. She had a passel of siblings scattered in parts unknown, but had looked at him like a three-headed madmen when he suggested they track a few down to reconnect with her roots.

They were adults like her, after all. Did Arcade expect her to play hide-and-seek or peg-the-molerat? Tribes shattered and reformed with others at least every other generation, Patsy explained. It kept the inbreeding down.

So, she was likely to have a hard-headed attitude to reproduction, at least. He began tentatively, “You know, Pats…there are ways, to safely…you’re young and healthy. You’ll have plenty of time later, when you aren’t racing into battle hopped up on Psycho every few days…”

Patsy shook her head, absently chewing on a pear rind.

“Children come when they will,” she replied firmly, in a tone that made him think she was quoting a commandment. “They are to be accepted as a difficult blessing, like the desert downpour that destroys one’s camp while engendering flowers throughout the waste. So, no, that destruction is forbidden.”

“Oooookay…”

“Unless it’s born wrong, of course,” Patsy continued. “Then, not destroying it is forbidden.”

Arcade waved down the bartender and took another drink, sipping at it this time while he digested that statement. A reasonable doctrine, perhaps, for people without geiger technology who often settled all unknowing in heavily radiated territory, but still…it gave him the willies.

At least it explained why Patsy was such a fascinating bundle of useful low-grade mutations, like the functional sixth toe on each foot that improved her balance, or the almost supernatural toughness of her bones, or the way she soaked up drugs without once suffering an addiction. That was at least half the reason Arcade stuck with her, making an intensive study of these mutations under the guise of her personal physician and sending copious notes back to the Followers’ research hub. The long-buried Enclave scientist in him stirred greedily, thinking of the knowledge to be gleaned from the growing offspring of two genetically gifted tribals…for all humanity, of course.

So he was able to sound downright cheerful when he asked “So where would you like to put our little Spartan’s crib up in the Lucky 38 suite, huh? Or should we all swing up by the Goodspring school first and stock up on toys?”

“Huh, Spartan?” she said thoughtfully. “That’s a nice name. No, too soon for that. Need a plan.”

“Heeeey, kitties! How’s my favourite percentage-gouging leech? Come for another pound of my flesh? Naw, I’m only joking, you know I love ya!”

Tommy Torini had spotted her. He squeezed between them and gestured for the bartender to top up both their glasses. “We got a great show on tonight, a real ring-a-ding cavalcade of entertainment. I think you’re gonna love it. What am I saying, I _know_ you will!”

“Need a plan,” Patsy repeated, dragging her finger over a crack in the bar.

“Ah, hell,” Tommy moaned, and turned a pleading eye on Arcade. It was a really lovely shade of deep brown, he saw, and the eyepatch added to the rakish affect… “Who pissed her off? Did one of the boys get handsy? Spit on her favourite frag grenade?”

“No, no,” Arcade replied soothingly. “It’s just…ah…her grandmother’s not well. Not taking her medication.”

That was certainly true…for a given value of “grandmother” which included the variables “giant,” “mutant,” and “not actually related.”

Tommy heaved a sigh of relief. “Thank god for that.”

“Say, why are you guys so nervous around us, anyway?” Arcade asked. “We can’t even, uh, hang around Benny’s apartment in a completely non-suspicious manner without every suit we see wetting himself.”

Tommy checked for eavesdroppers. “Some of them think she bumped him off, yeah, and spirited the body out somehow. But those of us in the know, we read that note the cat left before he split.”

He surreptitiously handed Arcade a well folded paper. It read:

_Swank,_

_You and the boys treat my girl to the tops until I get back. She can stay at my place if she likes, there’s caps in the safe if she wants something pretty._

_Just be extra careful checking her for weapons – careful but respectful, you got it? Any mug who even thinks of laying a hand on those goodies is gonna wish they were Sticky, capiche?_

_Ciao,_

_Benny_

Arcade was able to translate all of the arcane slang except, “Sticky?”

Tommy shrugged and lowered his voice. “One of the guys we ran with back in the desert days, a real big talker. Said some things about the old chief’s woman…well, no one believed a word, but the chief had his troublesome tongue and other waggly bits coated in nectar and dropped him down the El Dorado fire ant nest.”

That caught Patsy’s attention. She whistled appreciatively. “Sticky, with sticky nectar, huh? Your old chief was something of a wit.”

“Ah, you don’t have to worry about that old tribal justice,” Tommy hastened to assure her. “Benny’s a cool customer, and he treats his girls real nice. Uh, heh, not that there’s a lot of girls, heh. Just you, gorgeous.”

Patsy sipped her drink, not taking her eyes off Tommy.

“Er, not that they aren’t all after him, heh, catch that he is, yeah?”

She let him sweat.

“But, uh, none of them are so...irresistibly…erratic…”

Arcade took pity. “Tommy? Run. I’ll trip her if she goes for your jugular.”

The Aces manager disappeared as if he’d slapped on a Stealth Boy.

“You never let me have any fun,” Patsy snickered. “C’mon. We left Yes-Man locked up tight, yeah?”

“You’re the only one he’ll help now, thanks to Veronica’s partitioning skills.”

“Then let’s hit it.”

Patsy ran for the front door. The Tops’ head bouncer handed her weapons back with a wink, which she returned with a spark of her old manic glee. Arcade followed, panic rising up from his gullet. A determined Patsy had always led to yet another complicated and painful mission. He caught up to her just outside.

“Pats? Patsy? What are we doing? Is there a plan?”

“We’re going back to the Lucky 38 and getting the gang,” she grinned, and pumped her favourite new toy, a scoped anti-material rifle. “Then, we’re gonna pay Caesar a little social call.”

* * *

When their fearless leader returned with the medic in tow, Rex and ED-E were tearing up the Presidential suite in a fierce game of teeth-versus-laser, Lily was knitting a lumpy scarf using the two sharpened tibia of a Viper assassin for needles, and Raul was at it again with Veronica.

“I’m not telling you again, chica, go to the damn restaurants if Cram’s not good enough for you – it costs five times as much having all your meals delivered. And stay away from the mini-bar!”

“But the little bottles, they’re so cute!”

“Why do you even need to drink that,” Cass broke in, “when I’ve made us so much moonshine?”

“It leaves my teeth all furry.”

“Who cares? It gets you drunk twice as fast!”

A quiet afternoon. Boone sighed to himself, wishing they were back on the road. He perked up at the sight of Arcade’s quivery-lipped expression. A terrified Arcade always meant something gratifyingly violent was in the works.

“Patsy, Raul and Cass are ganging up on me!”

“No more mini-bar until you finish your moonshine,” their fearless leader ordered absently. Her uncharacteristic concentration raised Boone’s hopes another notch. “And put that dress back in the wardrobe. Go get your power armour from the 188 Trading Post, fast.”

“Power armour?” Boone raised an eyebrow.

Veronica coughed nervously. “Er, yes. I took it off a dead Paladin. It just happens to fit me. And have my name etched on the front, I mean, I etched it on, with a…pointy rock.”

“Uh-huh.”

“…they kicked me out.”

“You eat them out of vault and home, too?” Raul snorted.

“No, just used my _brain_ , not that _you_ would know what that’s like…”

“Patsy, use _your_ brain,” Arcade pleaded. “This is a suicide mission!”

“We’re going. Run down to the Crimson Caravan and pick up all the stimpacks they’ve got. Boone, could you swing through McCarran and see if they’ve got any loose ammo they’re not using in any serious way? They’ll appreciate it later, I promise.”

Boone almost felt like smiling. He patted his favourite scoped rifle. Legionnaires were probably too much to hope for, since they’d only just destroyed the lakeside camp at Cottonwood – oh, and that had been a red-misty day, one he thought of lovingly every night as he drifted off on the floor next to Patsy’s bed – but muties or raiders would be almost as good, if there were enough of them.

Arcade pulled her to the far side of the room and whispered. Everyone else immediately fell silent and perked up their ears.

“Your child needs a father, okay. I can understand that. But we’ll pick out a better one than that slime Benny. Boone’s no good with numbers, you could probably seduce him tonight and he’d believe – ”

“No she couldn’t, and I can add just fine,” Boone protested. “What’s numbers and sex got to do with killing, anyway?”

“Ask those Omerta bastards,” Cass muttered. “If anyone can remember where we buried them, that is.”

“Father? No, Arcade, child needs a _tribe_. Other children. Elders. No two people can teach a little one everything it needs to survive.” Her voice lowered sympathetically. “Is that why you turned out like this? Only had two people to raise you?”

“Child?” Raul asked.

“Like ‘this’?” Arcade echoed stiffly.

“Unable to hit the broad end of a bighorn even if it’s giving you a lapdance,” Patsy clarified.

“Oh,” Arcade sniffed. “Just my mother, actually, but we were very close.”

Patsy took his hand, gently. “You poor thing.”

Arcade pulled out of her grasp. “And how is your plan supposed to produce an entire tribe, may I ask?”

Patsy shrugged. “Benny’s Chairmen will do. They’re still wasters under those clean suits.”

“Amen,” Veronica muttered, pulling a face.

“Child?” Raul repeated. “Boss, are you saying you’re gonna add a little middle management to our crew?”

Boone’s mood plunged back into bleakness, Carla’s (shocked, then slack) face shouldering aside happy images of scattered Legionnaires like broken dolls. Fearless leader was going to have a child, a family. A normal life. No more radioactive barrels raining down on Legion camps, no more quixotic missions…no more room for a busted up soldier, good for nothing but killing.

At least she looked happy about it.

He envied her so hard it curled up into hatred at the edges. Her, and Benny. Benny, whose legs Boone decided he’d have to break in twenty places when he finally oozed back onto the Strip, ensuring the man would stay to enjoy every second of his unbelievable lucky strike.

“Poor Pats,” Cass said. “It’s going to be _months_ before you can have another drink.”

Lily put her knitting aside and covered her face in shame.

“Oh, sweetie pie, we raised you better than this. Well, don’t you worry,” she continued, unsheathing her sword. “Leo will make this boy do the right thing. You’ll still be a June bride…just not in white.”

“You can have it back in the bunker!” Veronica enthused. “The Brotherhood has the best doctors in the Mojave – ”

“Excuse me, whose fort were we in when I put all your ribs back in order after that incident with forty frag mines? The Followers can certainly handle a simple birth.”

“ – and maybe a cute wastelander baby would soften more isolationists than the promise of boring old underground farmland – ”

“This will be no cute baby,” Raul interjected. “You remember Benny, right? We might need to tie a gecko steak around the kid’s neck before Rex will play with him…sorry, boss.”

Patsy ignored the growing ruckus. “Boone?”

He grunted and pointedly began to break down his rifle.

“I have a confession. Remember how I told you Raul and I were away on a Jet bender in Primm last month?”

“Hmm?”

“Yeah. We weren’t. We went to Caesar’s camp.”

The extended ammo clip cracked in Boone’s hands.

“Caesar sent a messenger, that he had the platinum chip…and Benny…and that just this once, I could go into camp under truce and speak to him directly.”

“You went…into Caesar’s headquarters…without me.”

She was already pushing him out of the crew. He’d had one foot out the door all month and hadn’t even felt the chill.

“Recon, Boone! Sure, you and I could have gone out in a blaze of glory at the docks, and that would have been fun, but now that we know the layout and troop numbers, we can take out dozens more with us. Maybe even Caesar himself!”

His black mood began to lift. Caesar himself, staring into the scope of his rifle, like _she_ had…that’d be an even better red-misty day to treasure, if only for the moments it took Caesar’s personal guard to overtake them.

“We’re all going back in, Boone, every goddamn one of us, and we’re leaving with the chip, Benny, and Caesar’s head on a plate.”

“Hallelujah,” Boone rumbled.

“Okay, probably not a plate. Messy. A leak-proof gelatine mould, maybe. Do we still have one of those kicking around? Never mind. You three, you’ve got your marching orders. Meet us at the river in two days. We’ll bring the guns. And Boone? Here.”

She handed him a heavy, wrapped weapon.

“You’re a miracle with that sniper rifle, but this is likely to get up close and personal fast. I thought you might like this, for inside Caesar’s tent.”

Boone unwrapped his present and forgot all about his sniper scope. Who would picture a monster’s face at a distance, when it could be chewed to ribbons a foot away?

“Yes,” he breathed, hefting the chainsaw high.

* * *

After a trip to the Gun Runners, Raul worked through the night until every weapon they owned was modded to hell and back. Patsy whistled when he finally revealed his handiwork.

“I can see why Tabitha fought so hard to keep your services. Amigo, you’re worth every dent her super-sledge left in my cranium. Speaking of which, is this…?”

“Si, the beast itself. Don’t touch those new spikes! They’re radscorpion stingers.”

“Pure genius.”

Raul shrugged. “Just doing my part. Too bad I won’t get to see these in action.”

“Oh, you’re coming with. We’re all going.”

“But, boss,” Raul protested. “Look at me, at these blind eyes, these old bones! You really want me on the battlefield, with my trick back probably seizing up and forcing you to carry me the rest of the way?”

Patsy gripped his shoulders. “Raul, if your back goes out, I’ll leave you to die in the mud. That’s a promise.”

“Uh, thanks, boss.”

Patsy grinned. “I need you there. You and me are the only wastelanders to see this place without ending up on a cross. You gotta keep me pointed in the right direction. Anyway, don’t think I can’t see that pair of .44’s you’ve got tucked in your toolbox.”

“These?” Raul tried to force his leathery features into a picture of innocence. “They’re just scrap waiting to be broken down.”

_Forgive me, Juanita, Fernanda. Papi would never scrap you._

“Come on, Raul, don’t you know what Caesar’s people do to ghouls? Don’t you want to make sure that never happens again?”

“What does he do?”

“Something really bad…probably. I’m sure of it. I’d hoped you’d know, being a ghoul, and all.”

Raul sighed. “I’d rather face the Legionnaires than any more of this conversation, boss.”

“Done,” Patsy declared.

Cass tapped her on the shoulder. “We are killing Benny this time, right? Right?”

* * *

Boone was already waiting when Arcade slipped carefully through the underbrush at the edge of the river. He offered Arcade a cigarette and reminded him to hide the ember with his body so no small glow would pierce the pre-dawn gloom. Boone looked as peaceful as he’d ever seen the man, scanning the opposite shore through his scope.

Arcade felt like strangling him, if he wasn’t so sure any sudden movements would make him puke up his morning instamash.

_Clomp. Clomp. Clomp._

Boone wolf-whistled as a vision in power armour kicked several cacti aside and settled heavily beside them.

The tin can produced a dispirited, “Fuck you.”

“Well, I’m so glad I took the effort to sneak here,” Arcade harped, glad for the distraction from his nerves.

“This is as far from a dress as you can get,” the tin can whined. “You guys know any fine lady Securitrons I could sidle up to, maybe?”

“I hear ED-E’s available,” Arcade smirked.

[beep!]

“Speak of the devil. The others must be close now.”

“I could hear your chatter fifty yards away,” a nearby shadow growled, before standing and resolving into a familiar figure. “Every bastard over there’s probably got relationship advice for you, Veronica, just as soon as they’ve pounded us all into dust.”

“Sorry, Pats.” Boone ducked his head. “These two are a bad influence on me. You should send them home – more Legionnaires for you and me that way.”

Lily materialised out of the gloom, followed less stealthily by a battle-ready (ie, completely soused) Cass and Raul, who fairly bristled with guns. Rex sat tensely at Patsy’s heel, already growling.

“Oh, there’ll be plenty for both of us, partner. Now listen up, you mugs, because we’ve only got time to go through this once…and Arcade, I’d better not see anything more deadly than stimpacks in your hand. I’d rather not patch up any more plasma holes in this armor…or my damned skin.”

“Your faith in me is heartening, General.”

Patsy drew a few lines in the sand. “Okay, this is the camp. It’s got three – ”

“What’s that?” Cass asked.

“That’s a pebble.”

“Oh. I thought it might represent one of us.”

Patsy sighed and smudged out the lines with her toe. “Just follow me. You’re going to secure our rear.”

“Hah! Too late for that.”

“Veronica and Lily? You’re the first wave. Boone and I will cover you and try to clear out a path ahead. Arcade, you stay in the middle. You’re going to be a very popular boy.”

Arcade nodded, checking his medkit for the thousandth time. Several doses of Psycho recently confiscated from a Fiend stronghold lay on top. “If anyone would like to indulge, just this once I’ll forgo the standard lecture.”

“Ooh, candy!”

Arcade winced as Patsy jammed the needle in her neck, but kept his promise. He hoped a superhuman placental barrier was one of her many mutations.

“Raul, you stick with Arcade. Your sole objective is to keep our medic in one piece.”

“I got your back, doc. Say, can I have…”

Arcade handed over another dose of Psycho.

“Boys? Your jobs are to play loud music that gives away our position, and scamper about underfoot, respectively.”

[beep!]

“Arooff!”

“Great! Now, everybody grab a few toys, and Boone, you got that extra ammo? I want to see lots of energy, and remember – we’re going into the mouth of Hell to spit on the devil himself. Let’s have fun out there!”

“We’re all going to die,” Arcade muttered. He could make out figures guarding the gate now, and they were each at least fifteen feet tall. “Ah…what the hell.”

He plucked out another wicked-looking syringe and hesitated, then jabbed it in his neck. If he survived this, the Followers would appreciate a first-person account of Psycho use.

It felt…first it burned, but the sensation that whooshed through his extremities was cold. He wouldn’t have thought it’d be cold, like each nerve was calmly getting to its little nerve feet and stretching its little nerve limbs. Even his stomach felt less like a touchy projectile cannon, more a coiled spring.

He’d been frightened by those tiny Legionnaires? Hah.

“Arcade, got the Rad-X?”

“LET’S DO THIS THING!”

“Shit! New battle plan, guys – just keep up with Arcade!”

* * *

“Does it always go so quickly?” Arcade asked, bracing his trembling body against the inner gate.

“Always,” Boone replied, peeking through a crack. “But you’ll remember every second like it was an hour.”

Arcade could imagine. Already it seemed impossible so much blood had splattered the sand in so little time. It’d begun with Patsy snapping, “Behind us, dammit,” after Arcade’s first punch had failed to floor one of the outer guards.

He’d fallen back reluctantly, allowing Raul to finish off the guard. “You gonna soften them all up for me, doc?”

All had been orderly for nearly a minute, Patsy and Boone making for the high ground and taking shots in turn, picking off the Legionnaires with the biggest guns first. Arcade had shivered as Patsy’s anti-material barrage cut cleanly through the bodies, not in horror but envy. Despite Patsy’s orders, he’d reached for his plasma pistol, sure he’d be able to hit his targets at least as well as her…

“Doc, to me!”

The first melee wave had struck, splitting around Lily and Veronica as individual soldiers, brave and highly trained as they were, made the tactically sound decision to strike the soft underbelly of the group instead. Arcade forgot about attacking, having his talented hands full just keeping them all relatively unperforated.

He and Raul had moved together in perfect, chemically enhanced sync, eight limbs controlled by the same octopus brain. Arcade ducked to jab a stimpack in Boone’s machete slash, and a split-second later Raul’s .44 was thundering overhead, into the Legion diving for Arcade’s unprotected neck. Raul jumped just before Arcade rolled under his feet with an ampoule of Jet to reach a gasping Patsy, the wind knocked out of her by a power fist. He’d lost track of the other four, being neither mechanic nor veterinarian, but assumed they’d caused any dismembered bodies he couldn’t account for.

Cass crept up behind them. “Did they hear us?”

“No,” Boone replied. “Complacent assholes. Their little pep rally in there would drown out an atomic blast. Has Lily let go of Patsy yet?”

“No, but the sobbing seems to be winding down, since Pats came to. And Lily’s promised to bake us all sweetrolls if we keep her ‘pumpkin’ from getting hurt again.”

She touched the lump forming on her jaw, one Arcade judged would bruise at least to her cheekbone if untreated. “Son of a bitch. At least I got him. Did you see me, Boone? I killed three Legionaires. Me!”

Boone nodded. “You should be proud. Think you can break that record on the way to Caesar?”

“I’ll damn well try.”

Arcade reached for her face. “You should really get a stimpack in that.”

Cass jerked back. “No, nonono. You’re not getting near me with anything pointy until you come down, fiend.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“That trick with the empty syringes to the eye sockets had style,” Boone said. “Wish we brought a camera.”

Arcade sniffed. Raul had taken a bullet to the stomach, which had thankfully gone out intact through his back. Knowing ghouls’ sluggish medication metabolising rate (and fearing the mess that ghoul-borne peritonitis could become), Arcade had gone for broke and stabbed two handfuls of stimpacks into the entry and exit wounds. Just then, Lily picked up and tossed the Legionnaire attempting to saw through her tough hide. He landed on Arcade, almost cheek to cheek.

“Filthy ghoul-lover!” the soldier had screamed, raising his machete, and…

Well, the appropriate strategy was obvious, wasn’t it?

“Anyway, here they come – get ready for Stage 2 of Operation Get Our Fool Asses Killed.”

Arcade checked his medkit. They still had well over half the stimpacks he’d bought, and he hoped they’d be enough. The med-x and milder painkillers, the antiseptics and braces and bandages, they’d be put to use after…if Arcade was still there at the end of the battle. He toyed with one of the remaining Psycho syringes. Would he even be alive now without that extra focus, the steady-handed viciousness that was already fading?

It only made sense to top up his dose, he told himself and, tingling, stood aside for Veronica to kick in the heavy gate.

* * *

As a scribe, Veronica’s power armour was practically ceremonial, rarely used and far from broken in. Just walking was killing her knees, and every time she tried to shift her weight or feint to the side, she thought her feet were going to snap off. The armour’s servos gave her punches far more force, sure, but the soldiers she aimed at would be yards away by the time her fist made any progress toward them. She started following Lily’s lead and barrelled over as many red-clad bodies as possible while their bullets and blades clanged off her metal plates, and prayed her instructors in unarmed combat would never hear of it.

Just getting to Caesar’s tent was a nightmare to match any of her mother’s tales of battling the Enclave.

What they found inside was worse.


	2. Chapter 2

Raul had told her about Caesar’s personal guards, a brace of hulking veterans with the depthless doll’s eyes of true fanatics. She couldn’t blame Patsy for telling Caesar she’d think about his request and hightailing out of there, abandoning her nemesis-slash-paramour to their tender care. She’d hoped some of them would charge out of Caesar’s tent to join the skirmish, but they were damnably loyal to their master.

Instead, the final fray began with their battered band, nine guards, and Caesar himself all jammed into the reception area of his tent. Veronica had to admire the monster a little, for leading the charge himself…even he did plow straight into Boone’s chainsaw.

The guards howled and turned on Boone before Caesar’s severed head even hit the ground. Boone went down under two simultaneous punches to the head – and what the hell did those guards have decorating their fists, that let out a shower of sparks with each blow? Deadly _and_ pretty; Veronica was in love.

She waded in with Lily before the frenzied guards could literally tear Boone limb from limb, confident her armour would block their blows.

Instead, it dented. Veronica realised too late that those lovely tricked-out power fists could crumple her like a soda can, given enough time…

Arcade squeezed in behind Lily’s legs where she stood astride Boone’s prone figure and took a glancing smack from the flat of her sword. Through the ringing in his ears, he heard her apology. “Careful, Jimmy, this is no place for a little boy!”

His hands automatically went through the motions, checking first for a pulse (there, thank god, and reassuringly strong), then finding the cracks in his cranium and jaw. Simple fractures, at least, ones he could set now while the man was unconscious.

“Good thing you’ve such a hard head,” Arcade muttered, stabbing stimpacks in three places.

Raul reached in and pulled on his arm. “Stay low, with me. We’ve got to get to Cass before she’s crushed. And be careful – Rex is going for cojones.”

“For what?”

A bodyguard screamed and pounded on the dog’s head lodged in his groin.

“Oh.”

Rex and ED-E were carrying out their orders admirably. Raul yanked Arcade out of Rex’s path as he leapt for another bodyguard, tangling in both his and Veronica’s legs. Veronica kept her footing, but the guard didn’t. She lifted one metal boot and stomped on his face. ED-E hovered at eye level, blasting both laser and battle jingle. In the confusion, the bodyguards were striking each other nearly as often as the interlopers, but it wasn’t enough.

Raul threw himself between Arcade and a bodyguard’s fist. Arcade winced as the old ghoul’s collarbone crumpled.

“Move, doc!”

Arcade scrambled through the guard’s (rather nice) bare legs, getting clear just as Raul’s .44 shot through one of the knees.

Patsy broke loose from the scrum and bolted further into the tent. “That was the great Caesar? Hah! No one ever told me he’d go down like the Gomorrah 3-cap special!”

“Baby doll!? You’re…oh god, this is all you?”

Arcade felt a sharp spike of pride at Benny’s astonishment. _Yes, all us. Not the NCR, not the Rangers, not the thrice-damned Brotherhood, but us_.

He rolled out of the way of three guards who broke off to go after Patsy, screaming what they probably thought were manly Latin curses. Caesar should have focused his energies less on conquering and more on conjugation.

Cass was curled against the tent’s corner pole, her arm bending in at least three more places than her elbow. She braced her hunting rifle on her knee and pulled the trigger, only shooting a hole in the canvas above. The guard looming over her kicked it out of her hand.

Cass closed her eyes. “Well…fuck. I got three and a half of you bastards, anyway.”

He raised his fist again, aiming for her head.

Behind him, Arcade heard the screams of guards facing a Lily who finally had room to really swing her blade, Raul’s .44 making gecko loaf out of another guard’s legs, and a sharp blast of machine-gun fire and tearing canvas from Caesar’s throne room. Sparks flew over his head – Veronica still tied up with her dancing partner, then. There was no time…

But there was a scalpel in his pocket.

He thumbed the safety hood off the blade and slashed through the ligaments in the back of the man’s knee. The guard fell on his side with an anguished grunt, and Arcade buried the blade in his neck.

Cass stared, open-mouthed, at the dying Legionnaire, then at Arcade.

“I’m just as shocked as you,” Arcade whispered. He couldn’t seem to get enough air into his lungs. He made another mental note for the Followers: significant respiratory suppression; definitely do not prescribe Psycho to asthma sufferers. “Stay down. I think Lily is getting her second wind.”

The remaining bodyguards were outnumbered now. ED-E set one of them on fire as Arcade watched. But from Caesar’s throne room, silence.

“Where is she?” Arcade demanded, finding the room empty of anyone but a speechless Benny. He pointed silently to a ragged hole opposite him, one that looked as if someone had frantically weakened the canvas with bullets before running straight through it.

Arcade followed, catching his foot on the edge and nearly sprawling in the sand. He could just make out running figures far below Caesar’s overlook, four of them. Squinting, he saw that the smallest was running backwards, a 10mm machine gun in each hand. One fell – yes! – but so did one gun.

 _Down to her last clip of ammo_ , he thought. If he only had a sniper rifle, he could help… _Probably by shooting her in the head by accident. Blast it!_

He ran back in the tent, finding a handful of delicate Jet ampules by touch. Lily had the last guard down to his knees, and Rex was going for his throat. That was good. Veronica lay across the tent, staticky sobbing coming from her helmet. That was not good, but Raul was going to her, and there was simply no time.

Arcade fell on his knees next to Boone and broke the ampule open underneath his nose. “C’mon, soldier!”

No response. He snapped another dose open and practically stuffed the powder up Boone’s nostrils.

“Wuh…S’rge?”

“Up and at them!” Arcade hauled him out of the tent and flung him on the sandbags lining the overlook. “Look! Bad guys, down there – shoot them!”

Boone automatically tried to aim, but the rifle slipped from his hands. “’m not drunk, Sarge.”

At the bottom of the hill, Patsy dropped her second gun and pelted toward them, the two guards breathing down her neck.

“You’re about to be high as a kite, but before that, you need to kill those Legionnaires, just like you killed Caesar. Remember killing Caesar, soldier?”

Boone shook his head. “Le’gin’rs? Hold m’up.”

 _Oh, any other day…_

Arcade wedged Boone in place against the sandbags, firmly told his Psycho-addled hormones that _now is not the time_ , and reached around his shoulders to steady the rifle. “Point and shoot!”

“’ere’s six of ‘em.”

One guard snatched a spear off one of his fallen comrades and flung it, glancing Patsy on the side. She stumbled.

“Shoot any red ones!”

Boone grimaced. “Patsy’s a better spotter ‘n you.”

He pulled the trigger six times, hitting sand, an empty crucifix, the farther soldier’s shin and head, more sand, and finally splattered the last guard’s brains across Patsy’s best set of combat armor.

Arcade slid to the ground, letting Boone sag into his lap. Aside from the barrel of the sniper rifle pressed against his temple, and Boone’s trigger finger beginning the twitchy Jet dance, it was a perfect moment.

Patsy limped over the ridge and leaned against the sandbags. She let her hand rest on Arcade’s shoulder for a minute while they both caught their breath, and squeezed before standing up.

“Stop touching Boone. Your aim is rubbing off on him.”

“Come here.”

She obligingly leaned over so he could examine the wound on her side and stim it closed.

“Your pupils aren’t dilating evenly. That’s a concussion for sure. Any, er, cramping or bleeding…”

“Only where I’ve been punched and stabbed.”

“Patsy…”

She forced her bruised body into military posture. “My mother gave birth on a ‘lurk hunt, during a 5-minute pee break. _And_ she took down the king afterward with me strapped to her back.”

“All hail the superior tribal stock,” Arcade replied sourly, bowing as best he could over Boone’s head.

“Stop squishing me,” Boone muttered.

The Psycho had left a taste like cazador musk in his throat, and the camp stank like the crude abattoir they’d made of it.

“I never want to do this again,” Arcade declared softly.

Boone patted his knee. “You’ll change your mind. All soldiers do.”

* * *

Lily unsteadily hauled bodies out of the tent. Left punch-drunk by those mammoth guards, Boone realised, and felt a little better at being taken down so easily himself.

“Dearie, you left your toys lying underfoot again,” she grumbled, handing him Caesar’s head.

Boone looked into the glazed eyes. _Fixed your headaches, old man._

He stabbed the head on a spear and jammed it in the ground in front of Caesar’s tent, stepping back to admire the effect. A dopey grin tried to sprout, but he caught it in time and forced a scowl.

Damn Arcade anyway. Boone had only ever taken Jet once before, on his first leave in the Strip and at Manny’s insistence. He’d spent an hour giggling at a row of sparkly slot machines, then been utterly, humiliatingly, unable to perform for the showgirl with a uniform fetish who’d scooped him up.

Not that that mattered, now. That part of his life died with Carla.

But he’d be damned before he’d giggle, even at the outright scundered expression on Caesar’s decapitated head.

He ducked into the tent to find Patsy hovering over Arcade as he attended to the wounded, carefully not looking in Benny’s direction.

“Pussycat?” the man called, cautiously. When he got no answer, he tried in vain to catch Boone’s eye. “What, am I invisible?”

Arcade was wrapping Cass’s injured arm tight to her side. “There’s too many bone fragments to stim-heal now, not until I can get them all back in place. Are you sure you don’t need some med-x?”

“Save it,” Cass said, “I’ve got almost a full bottle of the good stuff left in my pack.”

“Leave mine, doc. A swim in the river sludge will heal this scratch. But the scribe’s in a bad way.”

Veronica’s power armour had a deep divot in the chest, and the helmet was half smashed and sparking. “Please get me out of this,” she sobbed. The helmet’s speakers fizzed and popped.

Boone leaned over to Patsy as Arcade examined the wreckage. “Change in plans?” he asked, tilting his head toward Benny.

She shook her head. “No. Maybe.”

“Maybe?”

“Seems I just can’t stick to a plan when I see that face.” Patsy scratched the stubble on the top of her skull and fluffed out her devil-horns of hair. “Think he’ll shoot me again as soon as I turn my back?”

Boone shrugged, distracted by his fingers. They seemed to have several extra joints each. “Based on the note he left, I’d give it 50/50. Seen relationships with worse odds.”

“…you read that note?”

“Arcade found it under your pillow.”

Arcade sat back on his heels with a frustrated grunt. “Sorry, Veronica…I can’t. I know it hurts like hell, but the armor is all that’s keeping pressure on those arteries.”

“At least the helmet?” Veronica begged. “I can hardly see.”

“It’s fused to the suit. What did they hit you with, a welding torch? Never mind. There’s a Follower outpost an hour from here, and they’ve got a Mr Handy. Can you walk?”

They helped her to her feet and half-carried her out of the tent. She collapsed as soon as they let go.

“No,” she whimpered.

“Lily,” Patsy began, “Can you – ”

“Grandma’s got to lie down for a little while, pumpkin.”

“I can do it,” Arcade insisted, and dug through his medkit for a bottle of Buffout. He hesitated, then chased the pills with another shot of Psycho before picking Veronica up, armor and all.

“Uh, doc?”

“I need Psycho to calm my nerves after the Buffout, okay?” Arcade snapped.

“Sure,” Raul shrugged. “Vaya con dios.”

He whispered to Patsy, “We should strip all these bodies for scav. We’re gonna need every cap to pay off their room service and rehab bills.”

She nodded. “I’m sending ED-E and Rex with you. We’ve cleared out the troops, but you’ll want protection from the wildlife.”

Arcade set off without a word with the dog and robot barely keeping pace, jogging as if 300 pounds of scribe and power armour weighed less than his medkit.

Boone was admiring the iridescent wings of the flies consuming Caesar’s eyes when Patsy nudged him.

“I need back-up,” she muttered, crossing her arms defensively. She made a face at the gore liming her armor. “And a bath. But back-up first.”

Boone unholstered his rifle, on the second try. “Kiss him or kill him, I’m behind you.”

“Killing Benny?” Cass exclaimed. “I’m in.”

“Give that here, boss. Bloody armor’s not the best look for a reunion. It can soak with me in the river. But take my advice on your fella in there – never, ever untie him.”

Patsy snorted and stripped to her underwear and tank, stretching as the midmorning sun hit her bruised flesh. “You know, Boone, this is turning into quite a nice day.”

“The very best,” he agreed, soaking in the devastated camp. Sunlight twinkled on twisted armor and trampled machetes.

Boone held the tent flap open for Patsy.

“Hel-lo, you,” Benny greeted the scantily clad sight. His face fell as Cass and Boone followed her in, Boone levelling the rifle at his head. “Oh.”

Boone watched him recalculate his odds of survival and turn the charm up to eleven. “You’re quite the scrapper, baby. Those guys never had a chance. C’mere and lemme thank you properly.”

Patsy opened her mouth, closed it, and looked at Boone. He waved for her to go on, managing not to get fascinated again with his very, very strange fingers.

She tried again. “Where’s the chip?”

Benny jerked his chin toward Caesar’s private room. “Leather bag, in the safe. It’s yours, it and anything else your crazy little heart desires. You want the moon and stars? I got a biiiiiig rocket.”

“Oh…puke,” Cass protested.

He turned his platinum grin on her. “Two beautiful women murdering dozens of men just to make time with little ol’ me? What did I ever do to deserve the honor?”

“I’m just here for the show,” Cass smirked.

“Hang around, you’ll get an eyeful. Maybe learn a trick or two.”

“What, like that thing with the heels of her feet? I tried, but I’m just not bendy enough to pull it off.”

Benny’s smile slipped a notch. He tried it on Boone instead. “Had a ghoul with her when she came through here last – she trade up to you and the blonde twinkle?”

Boone let the rifle drop to crotch level.

“You found that chip yet, baby doll?” Benny called, voice cracking. “We’re forging lifetime bosom friendships out here, but it’s time you got what you came for.”

“I did,” Patsy said, taking a long look at the chip and dropping it back in Benny’s bag, which she slung over her shoulder. “G’bye, Benny.”

“Aw, you’re not gonna shoot him?” Cass whined.

“The hard-to-get act’s not playing to this audience, toots, save it for the rubes.” He turned on the bedroom eyes. “You came here for me, you wonderful clingy broad.”

“Maybe,” Patsy averred, and pulled his 9mm pistol out of the sack. She turned it in her hand, admiring the Virgin etched in the handle. “Quick and clean, you asked, last time I saw you.”

Cass squeaked happily and nudged Boone.

“We should have brought a camera,” she said, echoing his earlier thoughts.

He didn’t answer, focusing on the shift in Benny’s expression. The practiced flash evaporated, leaving a sun-baked stoicism. He thought of Khans, and of Carla sharing his first night watch over Novac, without a reflexive stab of pain. She glowed too coolly in his mind to hurt.

“Last time you saw me, I was a dead man.” Benny shrugged, “Maybe I still am. The scales between us are tipped hard, and nothing’s gonna go my way until they’re evened up.”

“Evened up? You left me for dead.”

“And I didn’t have a good night’s sleep for two months, haunted by that nobody sap I gunned down for what turned out to be a very expensive conversation piece. Until you came outta my nightmares and between my sheets, and made me sleep like a very drunk baby. Oh, the knock-out time I was gonna show you when I strolled back into town with a metal army on my heels, but now…baby, you name it, the Ben-man will make it happen. That’s an honest-to-god promise.”

Patsy checked the clip and aimed at his mouth, one finger slowly curling around the trigger. “I still owe you a bullet.”

“Now we’re talking, kitten,” Benny said, rolling the words in a husky growl. He lifted his chin toward her like a lover expecting a kiss.

“What?” Cass protested. “No. Stop that. Stop that now!”

Boone nudged her into silence. He knew that there was a reason for the gun in his hand, that something was at stake, but the soft gloom of the tent was wrapped snug around his brain now. All four of them hung peacefully in starless space.

“You can put it anywhere you want.” Benny leaned closer, until the muzzle of his gun dug into his forehead. “Here, to match yours? I got better ways to pay you back, but it’s your call, baby. Quick and clean?”

Patsy’s finger trembled on the trigger.

His voice dropped to a whispery rumble. “When have you and me ever wanted it quick and clean?”

Boone counted heartbeats. One…two…three…four. Cass’s good hand was clenched so tightly he thought he heard bones creak.

The corner of Patsy’s mouth twitched.

She threw the gun to Boone.

“Convince me.”

Benny reached up with his shackled hands and ran a nicotine-stained finger along her neck. “Just get these cuffs off me, and I’ll convince you there’s a god. A _sex_ god. And he’s me.”

Cass gagged and pulled Boone toward the exit. “I need to drown in a lake of whiskey…more than usual.”

Boone lingered at the tent flap, though, his Jet-muffled synapses trying to parse out his duty. His partner requested back-up, and hadn’t sent him away. In fact, she’d just given him another weapon, one more suited to a tight space than his bulky sniper rifle.

“The cuffs stay,” Patsy insisted and hauled him to his feet. She pushed Benny onto Caesar’s throne and hooked his bound hands over one of the decorative spearheads at the top.

She still didn’t trust Benny, then. Boone nodded to himself, the matter settled. She needed him there to cover her, just like any other mission. That much was obvious.

He moved to a better vantage point.

“Mmmm, kinky. I like your style, kitten, but we don’t have to wear gecko skins and fuck on the bones of our vanquished any more. Caesar left a perfectly good bed right over – ”

Patsy unbuckled the belt on his pleated trousers, effectively silencing him. Benny whimpered as she pushed them down his thighs, releasing his straining member. It was already flushed deep red and leaking, and Boone idly wondered if he’d been hard since he caught sight of Patsy, or only since she’d put a gun to his head.

He’d have to run it past Arcade later, but Boone thought this twisted relationship was almost starting to make sense.

She took him in hand, stroking from root to tip.

Benny arched into her touch, rocking to the slow rhythm she set. After a long minute, he stilled suddenly. “Ah, baby? I been on the bench a long time here. You keep this up, I might strike out without a run around the bases, you dig?”

“No,” she warned. “You won’t.”

“Okay,” Benny gulped and breathed deeply, nostrils flaring.

Breaking down a minigun, Boone thought helpfully. Strip it, clean and oil every part, and put it back together again. That had always worked for him. He nearly broke in to suggest it, but realised Benny was unlikely to be familiar with anything larger than an SMG.

Whatever mental cool-down Benny clung to, it was enough. Patsy’s patience broke before he did. She released him and stripped off the rest of her clothes.

Boone wondered where the long burn scar on her back had come from. Fire gecko, or flamethrower?

“Hel-lo, you,” Benny breathed, then squinted. “Is it just my imagination, or have those gorgeous charlies actually gotten lusher?”

Patsy hmm’ed noncommittally.

“Bring ‘em over here so I can get reacquainted with my two favourite pals.”

She straddled the throne and leaned over, just out of Benny’s reach. He strained until the spear he hung from creaked, then flopped back with a frustrated groan. “Torturer,” he accused.

Patsy knelt over him, grinding slowly into his lap. “You’d be a better man with someone to torture you every day of your life.”

He swallowed a moan. “Lemme know, what are my chances just now of surviving so we can test out that theory?”

“Not good, kitten,” she purred. “Not good at all.”

She shifted and pounced, taking him in deep in one thrust. Her veneer cracked, just enough to let a tiny moan slip out. She pushed Benny back against the throne as he redoubled his efforts to break free of his restraints.

“Gimme something work with, baby doll,” he pleaded, and slid as far down their throne as the shackles would let him stretch. He planted his feet and thrust upward, trying to jostle her closer to his saliva-wet lips.

Patsy leaned back instead, a strategy that backfired as they groaned in unison at the better angle. She grabbed hold of the armrests for balance, chest heaving as he pounded into her in earnest now, a steam of incoherent gabble falling from his parted lips.

The 9mm fell from Boone’s hand. He realised that his heart was pounding, his body flinging regiment after regiment of hormones against the Jet in his bloodstream in a desperate battle to get aroused. Worse, it was winning. He could barely see the healing spear-wound in her side, gaze fixed on her bouncing breasts, and not only because the droplets of sweat on her nipples were nearly as pretty as the blood that had oozed from Caesar’s neck.

“Baby…” Benny whined.

“Don’t you dare,” she gasped.

“The spirit’s willing…but the flesh…it’s _really_ willing.”

Patsy slid two fingers where their bodies joined and threw her head back. Benny’s jaw dropped, glazing eyes fixed on the sight.

“Why’d I turn the light off before? What was I thinking? Sweet zombie Jesus, I’m ripping out all the switches in Vegas,” he babbled.

Patsy gasped and trembled, gouging her knees into his hips.

Boone clenched his fists and thought about miniguns. Rows and rows of dirty, shattered miniguns.

“Okay,” she puffed. “Go.”

Benny quivered on cue, heels digging little graves in the dirt as he shuddered through his release.

Patsy propped herself on the armrests, dragging in gulps of air. Benny looked like a wrung-out rag, but still managed to smirk up at her.

“I get to live.”

She smirked back, almost tenderly. “I just can’t seem to kill you.”

“Likewise.”

Benny yanked hard on his shackles, and the abused spike finally snapped. He flipped the chain over Patsy’s neck.

 _Shit!_ Boone fell to his knees and fumbled for the dropped 9mm, fingers thick as sausages and half as useful.

Benny only tugged Patsy down to his chest and held her there.

“Why’d you stay away so long, pussycat?” he murmured in her ear. “I missed you.”

* * *

The jet was all but out of Boone’s bloodstream by the time Benny finally squirmed, complaining, “Not that you aren’t light as a feather, kitten, but my legs have slipped into a coma.”

He’d stand by his tactically sound decision to remain by the boss’s side to the bitter end, but Boone wished for the first time in his life that he was less dedicated to duty. He would trade his favourite sniper rifle for the assurance that Benny’s ecstatically squinty expression would never come to mind at…a personal and very inopportune time.

“You’re a lousy mattress, anyway.” Patsy sniffed self-consciously. “Now I _really_ need a bath.”

“You’re a breath of fresh air compared to these guys,” Benny winked. “You don’t even want to know how much garlic they ate.”

He caught sight of Boone as they put their clothes to rights. Benny pulled a double-take, bound hands automatically going to the empty pocket that usually held his gun, then took his time tucking his cock behind a zipper.

Boone examined the fancy 9mm, tracing the inlaid design on the handle and staring down the sight, grunting dismissively. The other man’s lips thinned.

“So baby, how’re we gonna play this?” he asked, still glaring at Boone. “Do I catch the nearest sunset, or…?”

“I need you.”

Benny’s grin broke the smug-o-meter. “Of course you do.”

“And the Chairmen.”

That smile dropped like a lead balloon.

“Let’s get one thing straight, toots – the Chairman are _mine_. Nobody orders them around but me.”

Patsy shrugged and casually perused the contents of Caesar’s war room, picking up a slave ledger and tucking something between the pages. “Fine by me.”

Benny relaxed by a fraction. “You got me, and I got the Chairmen. We’ll have all the muscle you need to take the Strip once we settle up with old man House, one way or another.”

“So far, I’ve got the NCR and the Kings. Maybe some super mutants.”

Benny’s face scrunched in amused disbelief. “Really? The whole NCR?”

“No, just a few commanders who owe me one.”

“Oh, good. Should I ask for what? No, probably not. And, the Kings, well…I bet even the King couldn’t resist your charms, baby.” Benny blinked and cleared his throat. “Ah, that’s good. Real good. Yeah. You’re pulling my leg about the super mutants, though, right? I’ve seen your crazy pet purple people eater out there, but…”

“No, you’re right. I doubt Marcus will send anyone from Jacobstown. A battalion of mutants laying waste to humans won’t really help his efforts to be seen as peaceful traders. Damn it, anyway.” She sighed at the misplaced priorities of others, absently tucking the slave ledger in her undershirt. “Should have the Brotherhood and Khans on board soon. And the Boomers think I’m the second coming, so I can probably get some air support there.”

“The Boomers,” Benny echoed weakly. “Those freaks who blow up everyone who farts within a mile of them?”

“So, if you’ve got any strategies coming to mind, that’d be helpful. All I’ve got planned is to throw double handfuls of them at our enemies and hope for the best.”

“And Khans, did you say…they helped me to ambush…” Benny struggled to start a coherent sentence, finally spitting out, “You – you realise these tribes all hate each other?”

Patsy shrugged. “And?”

Boone almost felt a laugh coming on. There was something about Patsy’s helpful insanity that made ancient tribal enemies look like natural allies in comparison. She made it look easier than forcing her immediate comrades to get along – which Boone suspected it was.

Benny gave in, like so many before him. “I’ll think on it. You and me, we’re gonna lead one hell of an army. Maybe call it a zoo and charge admission.”

“You, me, and Spartan.”

Patsy shot Boone a sideways glace. He tried to psychically warn that this was a bad strategy, trying to bowl over one who lived for scheming his way to top dog, but her battlefield acumen seemed to have deserted her.

Benny followed her gaze and nodded tightly. “Nice to meetcha, Spartan. If you’re not a peeping tom, you’re the most dedicated bodyguard I’ve ever seen. Just remember, pal: the Ben-man swings, but only for the ladies. Got that?”

Boone couldn’t suppress a pained noise at the mental image that brought back.

“That’s Boone. Careful, he doesn’t play well with others.” Patsy cut to the chase, touching her abdomen. “We’ve got about six months to go before we meet Spartan.”

On Benny’s face, self-preservation warred with comprehension, and lost. “But it was just that one time! Sheesh, talk about loaded dice.”

“You’d have fewer problems if your aim was always so precise.” Boone piped up. He wondered if Patsy would make a fuss if he got started on the man’s legs before they got back to the Strip. But then someone would have to carry the ungrateful bastard the whole way home, and that onus would probably fall on Boone himself. He decided to wait.

“And Spartan’s not a name, it’s an adjective – and not even a snappy one!”

Patsy shrugged, still pretending to be absorbed in Caesar’s surprisingly scanty possessions. “I like it.”

“Good soldier’s name,” Boone added.

“Soldier?” Benny snapped. “Listen, pal, soon’s I get my metal army rolling, you and the rest of the NCR cowboys and indians will be as useful as a pair of knock-out tits on a deathclaw – which is only slightly less than you are now.”

“Yeah…and the Mojave would fall apart without every gambler in an ugly suit.”

“Boys,” Patsy interrupted. “While it’s vitally important we know whose dick measures up best, I’d like this tent to be on fire five minutes ago. Get a move on, _kitten_ , or we’ll leave you the way we found you. Fair?”

Benny held up his shackled hands. “I’d get to be an easy meal or strung up on a cross by the first Legion patrol to find their HQ in ashes? Tempting as that is, pussycat…forget the hard sell. The alternative could be Venus on a half shell and her seven nympho sisters, and I’d still leave this shindig with you – in a heartbeart, babe, a _heartbeart_.”

A greasy bead of sweat rolled down his forehead.

Patsy frowned. “You planning on killing me again?”

Benny laughed, too quickly and too loudly. “You’re not hearing me, doll! The only thing you got to worry about is me lovin’ you to death, got that? I offer the moon and the stars, and all you want is to play happy family, well…you me and Benny Jr it is.”

“Spartan.”

“That’s still not – fine. Spartan, uh, it is.”

Patsy hesitated a long moment before handing him a bobby pin. He was out of the shackles in a flash, tugging the sleeves of his jacket down to cover his abraded wrists.

“Well?” he asked, when Patsy and Boone only stared at him, waiting. He held his arms out to Patsy.

“C’mon, girlie. Let’s go see what this chip can do, then shake the dust of this godforsaken boy scout camp off our heels. We got a whole life waiting back home, and it’s getting’ antsy.”

Boone nodded to himself as Patsy grinned and accepted a one-armed hug. He wasn’t looking forward to sharing a suite with the oily fink, but he was used to sleeping with one eye open. Plus, Cass would undoubtedly be keeping a bead on him at all times, and the man would have to be pretty docile while his legs healed up from what Boone had planned. The team would make it work.

“My gun?” Benny demanded. “I’m not facing whatever’s down there without my piece.”

Boone handed it to him barrel-first. Benny caressed the design on the handle, muttering, “Madonna, mi perdoni…”

He snatched his travel bag from Patsy’s shoulder and legged it out the tent flap.

Boone’s head had cleared enough to dash after him immediately, catching Cass’ startled curse, but not enough to avoid stumbling over Lily’s outstretched legs. The instinctual shot that should have taken Benny’s head off went harmlessly into the sky.

Patsy followed, grimacing and rubbing her eyes rather than even looking at Benny’s quickly retreating back.

“Shall I take the shot?” Boone belatedly sought permission.

“You should let him, sweetheart.” Lily scrambled to her feet, immediately lifting Patsy off the ground with a smothering cuddle. “I’m sorry, but Leo refuses to give his blessing. ‘Better raise a bastard than marry one,’ he says. Don’t take it personally – that’s just his way. He’ll be the best grandpa a youngster ever had.”

“You can wear his jacket back into the Tops,” Cass piped up. “It must have hypnotic powers – it’s certainly not his leadership skills that keep him in charge. The Chairmen will fall right in line behind you.”

Patsy struggled out of Lily’s arms, landing on her ass in the dirt. “Ow! No. Boone, leave him alive.”

She allowed Lily to haul her upright by the armpits like a toddler and pat the dirt away with her massive hands, nearly knocking her to the ground again. “Leo suggests Boone have a friendly chat with him instead.”

Boone grunted, irritated, and lined Benny up in his sights again. “Why is everyone determined to make me clean up Benny’s mess? No offence, partner.”

“None taken,” Patsy snorted, a tentative smirk growing on her lips. “Lily, leave off! You’re gonna bash the uterus right out of me.”

The memory of her breasts heaving, her head thrown back, was mercifully driven out by Cass’s hard elbow to his ribs.

“She said alive,” the cowgirl hissed, “but nothing about his knees.”

Boone nodded and took the shot just as Benny reached the gate. The man jerked, mouth an O of shocked pain, and fell against the wood. He hauled himself through, leaving a bright smear of blood behind, but not before throwing a furious look straight through Boone’s scope.

“Nineteen to go,” Boone muttered, sharing a satisfied glance with Cass. She tucked a nearly full bottle into his hip pocket and gave it a pat.

Patsy sighed, watching them. “You guys… No, forget Benny. Hell with the Chairmen. I’ve got my tribe right here. It’s little, and it’s weird… _very_ weird…but it’s mine.”

Lily burst into tears and swept Patsy back into her arms, more gently this time. “I love you too, honey.”

“Aw, we’re honorary tribals!” Cass told Boone. “My mother would be so proud.”

Boone was pretty sure his parents wouldn’t have been, but he couldn’t deny the spark of warmth the idea provoked. It was like being part of the 1st Recon, again, watching each others’ backs and raining righteous bullets into those who destroyed what little order had taken hold in the wastes.

The new recruit would just be a little younger than he was used to.

“You’re breaking it to Veronica,” he said. “And Arcade, though I suspect he might more happily take to running around in skimpy leather armor with a bighorn’s skull on his head.”

Cass pursed her lips. “He does seem the type, actually.”

“Speaking of,” Patsy broke in. “You should all catch up to them. Send Raul up with my armour and a wrench on your way.”

“Why?” Cass asked.

She took the slave ledger out of her undershirt, and flipped it open to reveal the platinum chip hidden in its pages. “I’m going underground to jam this gods damned betrayal-magnet in every slot I find, and need Raul to make sense of whatever doom that results. I hope it’ll involve a big enough explosion to save us the bother of salting the ground when we go.”

Boone turned away before anyone could see him smile. It wasn’t the end of their quixotic missions after all…just a change in scale. So, they had six months to wipe out every trace of the Legion from the world their kid was coming into.

They’d do it with time to spare.


End file.
